Mika is giggling. It is a nice sound, not pretty, but sincere and donkey-ish. 'You're going to think I'm such a weirdo,' he says in his ungainly cosmopolitan voice, half-Lebanese, half-estuarine. 'But I collect smells. If I really like the smell of something - a piece of tar or my goddaughter's plastic doll - I put a tiny piece in a bottle with a label. I keep them in a fridge in my bathroom...' He breaks off, mauling his face with his long hands in embarrassment. 'I'm making it sound like a weird laboratory or abattoir or something, but it's not. It's my library of smells and it's better than all the books on all my shelves. It tells a lot more stories.'

Critics have struggled to describe Pajama Men ever since the duo started venturing from their base in New Mexico. Mark Chavez and Shenoah Allen inhabit a strangely seductive limbo between sketch comedy and physical theatre. Maybe the simplest description is that they are the best whimsical double act since Flight of the Conchords.